Enter The Game
by Spinning-In-Infinity
Summary: Ethan is your average 14 year old. His school life sucks and he's tormented at home by his evil little brother. Until one day, he gets sucked into his Pokémon Yellow game and finds himself living his very own - and very real - Pokémon adventure!


**Enter The Game**

**Chapter 1: Home**

Today has not been my day. Seriously.

So first I'm late getting into school (it was hardly my fault my odious little brother decided to feed the contents of my pencil-case to the S-bend of the toilet) and Mr. Dawness gives me a lunchtime detention, which means I miss out on orchestra practice, which _then_ means I get the third degree from Ms. Gabe during Music in the afternoon. Not to mention getting tripped up in the canteen during the ten minutes I was allowed for lunch by Jake Peterson while his thuggish mates sniggered. In front of Chelsie Gardner, the hottest girl in Year Nine, no less. I mean, it's not like she'd look twice at a dweeb like me anyway, but still. . .

Man. Murphy's Law's really been ringing true with me today.

I had to sidetrack around the back paths by the park to get home, as Jake and his cronies were lurking by the Spar, which means I get home twenty minutes late.

"Where have you been?" Mum swoops down on me like an angry vulture (albeit a vulture in a floral apron) the minute I step in the door. "Ben got back ten minutes ago saying you'd never showed up!"

Aw, geez. I totally forgot I was supposed to be picking up my brother from school. He normally gets a lift back with his friend's mum, but his friend had the dentist so it was supposed to be my job to make sure he got back safely. Not quite sure why a ten-year-old boy can't walk two streets by himself, especially when half the kids in his class walk the same way, but Mum's clearly not happy about it.

"I'm sorry," I say, kicking off my shoes and dumping my bag at the foot of the stairs. "I totally spaced."

"Well, that's not good enough!" she snaps. "Imagine if he'd gotten lost or someone had taken off with him!"

"Mum," I try to reason with her. "I said I was sorry. Besides, it's not like he was on his own. Half the other kids in Year Four walk this way."

"That's not the point!" she says. It's clear she's in one of those frames of mind where every sentence has to end in an exclamation mark. "When I give you a responsibility, Ethan, I expect you to act on it!"

"Look, I said I was _sorry_," I say, starting to lose my rag. "I've had a _really_ stressful day. First, Ben flushed my—"

"Oh, you think _I_ haven't had a stressful day?" Mum huffs. "You don't know the _meaning_ of the word 'stressful'! I mean it, Ethan, you need to start thinking. . ."

As she stands there and rants, I try to let her words wash over me. This is so typical Mum – it always has to be about her. Nobody else can have a bad day without her having to top it with some kind of domestic disaster. And all the while, Ben is sitting at the kitchen table, his infuriatingly smug face sneering at me over his sandwiches (chocolate spread sandwiches, I notice – the kind that Mum has banned from my consumption under the reasoning that it will rot my teeth from the inside out).

I allow myself to be lectured at for about eight years before detaching myself from Mum's wrath and slinking off upstairs. I drop my bag onto my bed and sit down at my computer, planning on fitting in a couple of hours of Portal 2 before dinner. Outside, it's started to rain quite heavily (seems I got in just in time) and there's a threatening growl of thunder.

"Knock, knock," Dad walks in, a stepladder under his arm. "Need to get a couple of things."

"'Kay," I shrug as he tugs the trapdoor to the attic down from the ceiling. "Whatcha getting?"

"Your mother has requested a clean-out," Dad says, setting the stepladder on the carpet and climbing until his head is out of sight. "She wants me to go through some of these boxes."

"Oh," I say, scooting over on my desk-chair to stare up into the trapdoor, where I can just make out Dad's face in the dim light of the low-watt bulb hanging from the rafters. "Anything good up there?"

"Some of your old stuff," he says, descending with a cardboard box in his hands. "Here you go – have a rifle through that. Save anything you don't want chucked out."

I take the box and rummage around in it as his head vanishes again. The box is full of the kind of rubbish you'd expect to find at the back of an eight-year-old's closet – a lucky eight ball, old Pokémon cards, a pack of felt-tip pens, a couple of yoyos (one without string). . . pretty disposable stuff. Then, pushing aside an old DragonBall Z manga volume, I find something worth saving – a turquoise GameBoy Color. I played this thing for most of 2003 through to 2005, when GameBoys were "in" and not considered dorky or (at best) retro. While my classmates were playing their new Nintendo SPs, I held on to my old GameBoy. It had been my companion (sad as that sounds) for so long I wasn't quite ready to give it up. However, when the NintendoDS came out and GameBoy cartridges drifted out of manufacture, I was forced to upgrade and join the rest of the world. So my faithful little GameBoy was stashed away in the attic, slowly gathering dust with the rest of my childhood, until today. I fumble through the random bits of rubbish until I find it – a small canvas case, filled with clunky squares of plastic. Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. . . Crash Bandicoot. . . Spyro the Dragon. . . wow, they're all here. And there – three cartridges in blue, red and yellow – the original Pokémon saga. They were my absolute favourites when I was a kid. When I used to play by myself in the garden (yeah, yeah, get out the violins), I used to pretend that normal animals were Pokémon – like caterpillars were Caterpies, butterflies were Butterfrees, etc. I even tried to persuade Mum and Dad to name our cat Meowth (it goes without saying that I was unsuccessful).

"Found anything?" Dad asks me, emerging with a large box of video cassettes tucked under his arm.

"Yeah," I say, showing him the GameBoy.

"Wow," he says. "That's your old ToyBoy, right?"

"_Game_Boy, Dad," I laugh.

"Yeah, right, whatever," he smiles. "Been a while since you saw that, huh?"

"Mmm-hmm," I lay it on my bed next to the cartridges and hand Dad the box back. "Everything else can be chucked or whatever."

"Right you are, captain," he says, beginning to lug the boxes out of the room before pausing and turning to look at me. "Got a call from your teacher today."

Damn it.

"Look, it wasn't my fault I was late," I protest. "Ben chucked my pencil-case down the toilet and I didn't—"

"It was from your orchestra teacher."

"Oh."

Ms. Gabe was _normally_ not bad for a teacher, so I can't quite imagine her ratting me out for missing just one practice session because of detention.

"She says not including today, you've missed two practice sessions in the past couple of weeks."

"Yeah, well I was sick last week, wasn't I?"

"And the week before?"

"Well. . ." I feel my face going red. "Chelsie Gardner needed someone to carry some books to the Library. . ."

Dad's serious expression fades a little and he smiles. "Ahh, the fair Chelsie. You still crushing on her, then?"

". . . Bit. . ." I mumble.

"Does she know?"

"Probably," I sigh. "She thinks I'm a loser."

"Girls," Dad sighs in return. "Thought I was a loser at school too. But seriously, Ethan – those music lessons are expensive. It's a waste of money if you're not even going to go to practice."

I want to point out that it was Mum and Dad's idea for me to have piano lessons in the first place, but I don't want Dad to get at me for cheek.

"Just. . . make a bit of an effort in the future, okay?" he says.

"Yeah. . . aright," I mutter and he leaves with the boxes.

Already planning a blast of nostalgic game-playing later, I wheel myself back to the computer and press the on button, watching the start-up data whizz across the screen. For about three seconds. No sooner do I raise my fingertips to type in my user password when the screen goes black with a sinister *_blip*_ sound. Along with the light and – judging by the furious shriek from the kitchen – the rest of the electrical appliances.

"Oh, you're effing kidding me. . ." I grumble, fumbling in my desk drawer for a torch.

As I point the beam of light across the room, I hear the sound of loud, thumping footsteps from downstairs.

"ETHAN!" Mum yells up the stairs. "Did you do something? What did you do?"

"For Heaven's sake, Joyce," Dad sighs irritably from the landing. "It's just a blackout. Leave the boy alone."

I hear Ben whining pitifully to Mum and she hurries to coo and cluck over him. She seems to be doing good bird impressions today – first a vulture, now a hen. What next – a Pidgey? I smirk and flop down onto my bed, almost crushing the GameBoy. I tug it out from beneath me and shine the torch's beam on it. I recognise the small scratch on the screen from where I got my butt whooped by Sabrina in the Saffron City gym (seriously, how many times can an Alakazam use Recover?) and threw it across the room. I locate the yellow game cartridge and click it into place, flicking the on switch with my finger. The familiar _*bleep*_ as the game loads up bring back so many memories. As the images of Pikachu (running, surfing, being levitated by balloons) flash across the screen, a sharp flash of lightning outside the window makes me jump. Then a soft creak at my door announces Ben's arrival.

"Get lost, Ben," I say, none too subtly.

"Whaddaya doing?" he asks, his whiney little voice grating on my nerves.

"None of your business," I mutter, selecting new game and typing my name into the main character profile (for a joke, I also call the rival 'Jake'). I should have known better, really. One sure-fire way to make sure Ben will _not_ go away, is to say "none of your business", as he will lurk around whining until he finds out every detail of what _exactly_ is none of his business.

"Whaddaya doooooing. . .?" I can hear the smirk in his voice as he tiptoes closer.

"Playing a game," I say impatiently. "Push _off_, Ben."

Suddenly, I find my hands are startlingly empty. The little brat has swiped the GameBoy from my grasp and is running away with it down the landing.

"Ben!" I shout, scrambling to my feet and chasing after him. "Come back here! Give that back!"

I hear him cackling evilly (I swear, Satan's kid Damien ain't got _nothing_ on my brother) from the direction of the bathroom.

"Oh no, you little. . ." I mutter in panic, throwing open the door. The room is pitch black, but (in true cinema fashion) is momentarily illuminated by another fork of lightning that strikes not too far away. Ben isn't standing with his hand suspended over the toilet (as could normally be expected of the little monster), but is instead balanced _on_ the toilet – his grubby, shoe-clad toes scuffing the spotless plastic seat – with his hand stuck out of the window.

"Jesus, Ben!" I squawk, holding my hands out in minor desperation. I'm nervous to make any quick movements in case he drops it immediately. "Just give it back, yeah?"

"No!" he says petulantly, a wicked grin on his (seemingly angelic) face.

"_Why do you have to be such an annoying little rat?"_ I want to ask, but all I can do is wince in apprehension as he lessens his grip on the GameBoy to just his thumb and forefinger. "Okay, Ben," I say slowly. "If you just give me the GameBoy, I'll. . . I'll give you my pocket money next week."

"And the next!" he demands, his eyes narrowed.

"Okay, okay, whatever," I say hurriedly. "Just _please_ give me the GameBoy."

I know it must seem like I'm making a big fuss over just a silly thing that I only have six games for, but it's such a major part of my childhood that I feel compelled to try and save it if I possibly can. Plus, _anything_ Ben steals from me I automatically want to fight tooth and nail for. His fingers are swaying from side to side, his grip lessening by the second. I can see drops of water on the screen.

"Please, Ben. . .?"

A pause. Then—

"No!" he cackles and throws the GameBoy with full-force out of the window.

"NO!" I shout, bounding over to the window, even though I know it's far too late. There's a brief moment of silence, in which the blood starts to race through my head, before I turn, slowly, to face my little brother. The look of fury on my face must be frightening, because his smirk falters and he takes a step back.

"You. . . little. . . AAAARRRGH!" I scream, unable to contain my anger anymore. Not just for the GameBoy, but for the whole day, and every single moment when Ben has broken something of mine and _still_ managed to get away with it. Every. Single. Time.

I chase him all the way down the stairs and into the living-room, where Mum and Dad are sitting.

"Mummeeeeee!" he shrieks. "He's going to get me!"

"Ethan!" Mum glares at me. "What—?"

"HE THREW MY GAMEBOY OUT OF THE WINDOW!" I bellow, shocking both my parents.

"Ethan, calm down," Dad says after a brief moment of surprise. "It's just a GameBoy. I'm sure you can buy them for less than a fiver online."

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" I continue to roar. I feel incapable of lowering my tone of voice. It feels kinda good to let it out.

"Stop shouting!" Mum shouts. "You'll annoy the neighbours!"

"SOD THE NEIGHBOURS!" I aim a hefty kick at the coffee-table, which (in the dark) misses and instead hits. . . Ben. In the leg. Uh-oh. I didn't mean to do that. Now I know I'm _really_ in for it. As Ben begins to wail like an ambulance siren, Mum rises slowly to her feet and pulls back her hand as if to slap me.

"Joyce!" Dad says sharply, his arms around a bawling Ben, and Mum lets her hand fall. "Ethan, go to your room."

"But, Dad—"

"Now!"

I don't, of course. I stalk through the kitchen to the back garden, where I can just see the sad, broken shape of my GameBoy. I step forward to pick it up, but out of nowhere a shaft of white-hot lightning strikes directly in front of me. I scream (a rather girly scream that I can't say I'm proud of) and fall backwards onto the patio paving stones. Half-blinded by the bright light, I look at the GameBoy, expecting it to be obliterated beyond recognition. To my utter amazement, it's not. Instead, it's fixed. Perfectly.

"How in the hell. . .?" I mutter in true astonishment (well, wouldn't you be?) as I move forwards to pick it up. I expect it to be hot, but it's actually pretty cool. I look at the screen. Somehow, the opening is still on, the digital image of Professor Oak talking about the world of Pokémon.

Ethan! Your very own Pokémon legend is about to unfold! A world of dreams and adventures with Pokémon awaits! Let's go!

"What the—?"

As the words flash across the bottom of the screen, and the image of my self-named character shrinks, I feel a most bizarre sensation in the pit of my stomach – like someone has set off an entire case of fireworks in it while, at the same time, waving multicoloured sparklers in front of my eyes. I feel almost as if I'm shrinking as well, a kaleidoscope of colours whirling and dancing in my head, making it impossible to see or know what in the world is happening to me. . .


End file.
